


The Anniversary Gift: Being a Tale of Portraits, Politics, and Postwar Percipience

by Hermione_W_Cullen (HC_Weatherfield)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post-War, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:46:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9227507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/Hermione_W_Cullen
Summary: On the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Kingsley Shacklebolt receives an unexpected gift, and has a conversation he never expected to have.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends,  
> This is a oneshot I first published as Hermione W. Cullen on fanfiction.net. I hope you enjoy it.  
> A few minor changes have been made, but otherwise it's the same on both sites.

**May 2, 1999**

**British Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London**

Kingsley Shacklebolt walked down the hallway to his office. He could admit to himself now that he was beginning to enjoy the pomp of it all: the plush purple carpets, the portraits of former Ministers grumbling sleepily, the gleaming mahogany doors, and the dramatically long hall ending in a door with a brass plaque reading, “Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic.” It was fairly common for Kingsley to come in to work on a Sunday, and usually he enjoyed the quiet. Today, however, the place was bustling. Reverberating down the hall were sounds of the atrium—heavy objects being moved, instructions being shouted. Readying for the day’s solemnities.

His office, however, was quiet. Soundproofed, warmed by the impossible sun shining through the false window. Bless him, Reg had outdone himself: today the window showed a humbling and tranquil landscape of the lake district. Kingsley smiled. He remembered mentioning his boyhood holidays there, the feeling of the sublime that overtook him on those soaring hills under the peculiar yellow sun. He remembered Reg’s sardonic response.

“You should have been Poet for Magic, sir, not Minister.”

Yet he had remembered when Kingsley needed it most.

It would be a long day. He kept his eyes fixed on the window as he moved to sit in the grand leather chair behind his desk. Just as he was about to put his feet up, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in.” The door opened, and Percy Weasley entered, wand up, suspending a great canvas-wrapped package in the air.

“Good morning, Minister.”

“Morning, Weasley. What’s this?”

Young Weasley puffed up a bit. “As Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, it is my honor to present you with this gift, on the occasion of the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts”—

“I’m hardly the one who should be receiving gifts on this occasion,” Kingsley observed. Weasley looked supremely irritated to have been interrupted.

“Specially made to hang in the Minister’s office by commission of the Order of the Phoenix,” he finished shortly.

“Show me,” said Kingsley quietly.

The wrapping flew off the package. There, in an elegant brass frame, was one of the most lifelike portraits he had ever seen. It was wide awake, the blue eyes twinkling at him over the half-moon glasses.

“Albus.”

“Hello, Kingsley.”

“Shall I hang the portrait, Minister? Reg offered to come up with me, but I rather fancied doing it myself.”

“Of course, Weasley. There, if you would.” He pointed to a spot behind his desk. With a wave of Percy’s wand, the portrait was attached to the mahogany paneling as if it had always been there.

“Not to be indelicate, Minister, but may I go? I have so much work…”

“Of course, Weasley. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Very good.” Percy was gone in a flash.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” said the voice from the portrait. Kingsley turned his chair around and looked up. It was Albus Dumbledore at his finest, in resplendent embroidered robes, his white hair and beard tinged red at the ends, as Kingsley remembered him. That had been before the war, the last of the red hair. Who had remembered?

“Thank you,” said Kingsley hesitantly. He looked around and remembered: He had had the decorations removed from the walls, along with all the excess furniture: now it was the great desk, the leather chair, the purple carpet, the conference table, and the window.

“It’s elegant.”

“I don’t like clutter. I like to be the centerpiece of a room.”

“It must have driven you mad to visit my office.”

“It had a certain charm,” Kingsley said. Albus stared, until Kingsley chuckled and admitted, “Well, just you. You were the charm.”

Albus adjusted his glasses. “I never tire of hearing such things.”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” said Kingsley. Albus nodded. Silence fell. Kingsley hardly knew what he felt. Since Albus’ death and the war, he had been driven mad with wondering whether it would have meant anything. To say what he never said…how would Albus respond? Certainly it wouldn’t have been the stuff of dreams. But perhaps it would have been worth saying.

This wasn’t Albus, of course. It was only a portrait.

“I loved you,” he said. Just like that. It was out in the air.

There it was. The slight frown, the raising of the eyebrows. Just as it would have been in life. “Oh, dear Kingsley, I’m so sorry.”

Kingsley stared. “Sorry?”

“Of course. To waste the love of one’s youth on an old man…it must have been an appalling experience.”

“Glorious, actually,” said Kingsley smiling. “Every time you turned your attention to me, it was like walking in the sun.”

“I forgot what a romantic you are. You ought to have chosen a better object for your fancies.”

“Hardly.”

“I hope you didn’t pine.”

“No.” Kingsley thought a moment. “I did daydream. That I would somehow do something worthy of you, that you would be carried away with admiration as I always was in your presence, and that in that moment I would tell you, and you would sweep me up in your arms.”

“I never would have.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, you have the stronger arms for sweeping.” Kingsley smiled. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“I didn’t pine,” he repeated. “I found someone. Fabian. A Londoner from Haiti. I rented out my home in the country and moved in with him and his daughter. For a few years…before the war came…it was a beautiful way to live. Still, once you were—after you were gone, I wondered whether it would have been better for me to tell you. My feelings. I wonder if it is ever justifiable to hide that sort of thing.”

“I wonder as well,” said Albus. “I hid much in my life.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“What happened?” Dumbledore asked.

“Hmm?”

“Fabian.”

“Oh. He…they were muggles. Are. They _are_ muggles. And when I knew the war was coming…I had seen the signs all along, of course. Only I didn’t want to admit it. So I never told anybody—never introduced them to anyone from the Wizarding world, though they were curious. I wanted to keep them safe, and I wanted them to be mine. But when I was sure the war was coming, I did what I had to do to keep them safe.”

“You modified their memories.”

Kingsley nodded.

“And they couldn’t forgive you?”

“They don’t know. I never removed the spell.”

“Oh, Kingsley.” 

“The war may be over, but Dark wizards are still out there. Hundreds of Death Eaters escaped…and even before that, I was an Auror for years, and I made many enemies. As Minister for Magic, I’m more of a target than ever. Fabian and Ruby are good people. They are innocent people. It would be selfish to endanger them again.” Kingsley removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. He had never spoken of this before.

“If I learned one thing in my life,” said Albus, “and I mean one true thing, the sort of thing that can’t fully be taught—it’s that those you love must be allowed to decide for themselves. I lived my life doing what I thought was best for those I love, telling them only what I thought it was best for them to know, and I lived a very lonely life. Had you confessed your feelings for me, I would not have let you in. I would not have thought it best for you.”

“I know.”

“They must be allowed to decide for themselves, Kingsley.”

A knock on the door. Weasley’s voice: “Minister, you’re needed in the atrium.”

“I’ll be there in a moment, Weasley.”

Kingsley sighed, looked at Albus’ painted face, and said, “I’m glad to have you with me, Albus. Even this shadow.” He paused, then added, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione will be in later today. Should you wish to greet them, you’ll have the chance.”

“It’s so strange.”

Kingsley looked back at the portrait as he moved toward the door. “What is?”

“To be in this office at last.”


End file.
